Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Raine Enchanted

I am a klutz. Every gene in every cell in every inch of my body is clumsy. Case in point: last Sunday, I was trying to eat dinner on my dorm bed. I had soup in a bag, which I tried to pour into a bowl. I missed it entirely and ended up pouring the boiling liquid on my belly. Yelping in agony, I jumped off my bed, in the process, knocking my plate of food to the floor. I then slipped on the rice and landed on my butt. So I changed my soaked and smelly shorts for a fresh pair. And when I bent over to clean up my mess there was a loud RRRIP and my fresh pair of shorts had split down the middle. Once again I ambled over to my cabinet to change, and I stubbed my toe on a chair leg. Hopping up and down, I hit my head on the closet door, causing my toiletries to spill out. My roommates, taking pity on me, sent me out of the room and repaired the damage I had wrought. And I have whole weeks like this. If Ella Of Frelle has obedience for a curse, mine is clumsiness.
My feet have an unerring radar for all cracks, roots, rocks, wires, and anything to trip on, and, by Gosh, they always, always find a way to trip over it. It doesn’t matter if I see the obstruction on my path. My feet have a mind of their own. One brain for each foot. My feet are evil, I tell you. Evil.
On any given week I have at least two bruises on my legs. This week, they are gracing my knee (where I bumped a platform) and my thigh (grazed by the sharp corner of my desk). As a preventive measure, I wear thick, sturdy clothes in an attempt to cushion my skin from the blows.
Dignity is one of my biggest dreams. I wish to one day walk upright, unencumbered and unhindered by anything. To sashay in high heels. Sashay is a funny word. It means to glide. How do models do it, I wonder? High heels are my waterloo. I mean it. I have fallen down a flight of steps, twisted my ankle, stabbed someone in the foot, caught my heel on the hem of my gown, punctured somebody’s dress, broken a stiletto and gotten stuck in a crack. Heels aren’t shoes; on my feet, they’re weapons of mass destruction.
My arms have also gotten me into trouble. I tend to gesticulate wildly when I speak. In one occasion or another, I have accidentally slapped a teacher, skewered a crush with the barbecue stick I forgot I was holding, twisted my fingers against a grill, hit a friend in the crotch, wrenched my shoulder and gotten my fingers caught in someone’s coiffure. My arms, too, are scary and a safe distance must be kept at all costs.
Practice? My mom keeps saying if I practice, I’ll eventually get the hang of it. The hang of what? Killing somebody? I’m afraid to try. Inner ear balance, lack of coordination, whatever you call it, it’s my curse. Don’t worry, I’m getting the hang of it.

3 comments:

sarahred said...

Hi- I found your blog from the nav bar on the top of my page, and I think it's great . I am also a weapon of mass destruction in high-heeled shoes!

clang said...

larry, curly, and moe would have been proud of you :P

Luctor et Emergo said...

Certainly amusing. Bumbling feet but not bumbling words. What can I say? Put on a helmet and hit the pavement like crazy. In zero gravity, gravitas becomes a necessary desired encumbrance. Perspective.